


The Adventure of the Second Scarlet Stain.

by Taz



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Canon References, Case Fic, F/F, Female Friendship, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Johanna Watson. It may seem inapt to begin an account of the career of my dearest friend and colleague, Sofia Holmes, by relating certain incidents of my own history, yet in the natural course of events it is unlikely that that we would have met had I not chosen to become a doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

My name is Johanna Watson. It may seem inapt to begin an account of the career of my dearest friend and colleague, Sofia Holmes, by relating certain incidents of my own history, yet in the natural course of events it is unlikely that that we would have met had I not chosen to become a doctor.

I was born the youngest child and only daughter of James Watson, a lawyer, and his wife, Elizabeth. As I was preceded into the world by three healthy brothers, Albert Victor, Theodore, and Jonathan, my parents expressed no disappointment at my sex. On the contrary, it sealed their happiness and the four of us grew up healthy and happy. My parents both came from large well-established families. There was no doubt that my brothers were intended to follow professional careers, or that, in the course of time, I would marry and raise a family of my own.

So things might have developed had my mother’s own youngest brother, an army officer, not died of fever in the Crimea. Revelations of the horrific conditions then obtaining in our military hospitals were the scandal of the time and caused both of my parents to become fervent supporters of the work of Miss Florence Nightingale.

It happened that I attended a lecture with my mother on the foundation of the first nursing school in the north of England. There, I met and became inspired by Miss Nightingale’s American friend, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell. The idea that a woman could peruse a career in medicine exploded like a bombshell in my mind.

To the great amusement, and condescension, of my family, I announced my intention of becoming a doctor.

At seventeen I had received never any check to my pride and persisted in making plans. When I said I would follow in Dr. Blackwell’s footsteps by applying to Medical School. My father became furious. For the first time in my life, he forbad me to mention the subject.

That evening, in private, my mother took it upon herself to apologize him, explaining that Albert Victor had recently cost them some money – a great deal of money – and, as a result, my brother Theo would not be going back to Oxford, but would be reading law in my father’s office, and that Jonathan was going into the army. In the sweetest way, she explained that this would have no effect on my future; my portion was secure; both she, and my father, fondly expected me to marry my cousin Francis Albert. I did not appreciate fully the implications of what she was saying at the time, I only knew that a future which had opened so brightly before me had closed; it might have stayed, but for my father’s older brother.

Uncle Robert was a physician with a thriving London practice. I don’t recall that he paid any particular attention to us as children; he was a confirmed bachelor, and somewhat estranged from the family. That year, shortly after my eighteenth birthday, it happened that he attended a Christmas gathering at my grandparent’s home. For some reason over dinner my father chose to poke what he considered gentle fun at my ambitions, to the general amusement.

After listening to the banter, and perhaps observing my flushed cheeks, Uncle Robert entered the lists, stating that it was a sin for a girl of my intelligence to be denied an education because of mere social prejudice (which is what he believed my parent’s objections boiled down to). To everyone’s further surprise, he buttressed his opinion by offering to pay outright for my education, and to provide support during my studies. I accepted on the spot.

This act of rebellion caused such uproar at the table that my father ordered me from the room. While I was upstairs, crying into my pillow, my father informed my uncle that he was an interfering busybody, whom he would thank him for minding his own business. My grandparents were scandalized. My mother took to her bed for a week.

In the end, though, my parents were unable to withstand the force of his pocketbook. My father’s parting shot, as he retired behind his newspaper, was that I was an unnatural daughter and, if I insisted in my course, and died an old maid as a result, I could blame Uncle Robert.

I will not bore you with the trials that I endured in the course of obtaining my degree; the intolerance shown to female physicians is well known. Suffice it to say, I qualified with honors, and the following spring, I moved to London and joined Uncle Robert in his practice.

It was the pragmatic thing to do; in addition to being obligated by kindness, my uncle was growing older and had no son to leave a lucrative practice. Furthermore, his office was located near Soho, a part of London known for its theaters and music halls. I considered the bohemian nature of the residents would be more readily disposed to accept a female physician.

So, for the most part, it proved.

A passage of some few years brings me to my present narrative.

It had been a cold, rainy December; a busy day for all kinds of colds and sniffles. Uncle Robert had gone home, but I had a dinner engagement that evening and was occupying the time until then by writing up my notes on the day’s cases. I was considering lighting the gas, when our nurse-receptionist, entered to say that a young woman had come in, asking to see Uncle Robert.

“Says it’s a matter of some urgency, Miss.” Mary gave a disapproving sniff at the impertinence. “She’s in the surgery.”

I suppressed a sigh, and said that I would attend her.

My prospective patient was pacing back and forth as I entered and turned abruptly.

“Where’s Dr. Watson,” she said. “I need to see ‘im. I tol’ the other nurse.”

“I’m Dr. Watson,” I said. “I will be happy to assist you, but my uncle has left for the day.”

Upon hearing that, she cried, “Oh, my God! No!”

I had become used to a certain amount of surprise, and occasional consternation, upon introducing myself, but never experienced such a pronounced reaction before. She dashed past me out the door and I was still staring after her, when Mary popped her head in the room.

“What on earth—?”

“I’ve no idea,” I said. “I told her Dr. Robert had gone for the day, and she ran out.”

“Well, she dropped her reticule on the way. I’m off now before we get another one.” Mary was tying her bonnet ribbons. “I put on your desk, in case you’re still here and she comes back for it.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” said I, and went back to my desk.

As Mary had said, the reticule was there. The tiny bag was only a scrap of black satin trimmed with lace. It reeked of sweet perfume. As I was going to have to wash my hands anyway, I couldn’t resist looking inside to see if it contained some clue to my visitor’s identity.

I opened it and poured out five pennies, a small mirror, with a pot metal frame, a broken comb, a tin of French rouge, a papier-mâché etui, and a pen. None of these things gave me a clue as to their owner’s identity and, of course, there was no visiting card.

I returned all the items them to the bag. As I dropped the pen inside, I saw that my fingers were stained a dull crimson! Blood. It was my first thought. A sniff of my fingers confirmed it.

At this time Stamford arrived.

We had arranged to dine at the Royale that evening and, as he had a cab waiting, I hurried to wash my hands and gather my things. I don’t know what prompted me, but I scooped the little black bag into my own handbag.

Gregory Stamford had been one of the few of my fellow medical students who had honestly befriended me. The only son of a non-conformist minister, he had stayed on at Saint Bartholomew’s after graduating and we had kept in touch, seeing each other occasionally.

“I have some news,” he said, over the fish.

There was a fine blush on his cheeks.

“You are in love,” I said.

“I am.”

“Oh, my dear, I am so happy for you! When is the wedding?”

“I…Oh, Johanna,” he said. “I’ve only just me her.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Sending your cart to market before your horse again?”

“This time, I hope not.”

“She must be exceptional,” I said. “Tell me her name.”

“Sophia. And like her name, she is wise. You know I only fall in love with brilliant women.” As he spoke, he placed his hand over mine. “It is my one weakness.”

I ignored a tiny pang near my heart. I would not be made to feel guilty. Of the myriad causes for pain in this world, the worst is to pretend love where none is felt. In an attempt to distract us both from futile regret, I told him of my surprising visitor and the blood I had on the pen.

“It may be silly for me to worry, but I can’t help feeling that she is in trouble.” I found myself remembering her face. “She was no more than a child.”

“And you would like to help her,” Stamford said.

That Stamford never dismissed my feelings out of hand was one reason that I still harbored regret at not being able to return his feelings for me.

“I have no idea how to find her.”

“As to that,” Stamford said, suddenly smiling, “I know someone who may be able to. Would you care to walk around to Great Russell Street after dinner?”

Great Russell Street being but a short distance, I expressed myself willing, and after dinner we did so.

The general attraction of that neighborhood is, of course, the British Museum. To my surprise our destination was an annex of that institution. This was a mansion a block away that appeared to house administrative offices. Although it was late when we entered, there was a clerk still at his post in the reception hall.

Gregory had written a note, which he handed to the attendant, with one of his cards, asking that they be conveyed to Miss Holmes.

The attendant vanished, but returned shortly to conduct us up the stairs and down a long hall that was lined entirely with glass-front cases. All of the cases were crammed with books, man-made artifacts and fascinating objects of nature. At the end of the hall, he opened a door that admitted us to a room that had been furnished as a laboratory.

The walls of the room here, too, were lined with cases, but in the middle was a long bench fitted with a sink and a frame to support chemical apparatus. At the far end of bench was a stool with a young woman perched upon it. She was peering through an ebony handled magnifying glass, at what looked to be an ancient map that was spread out before her.

As we approached, she held up her hand, the gesture forbidding us to come closer, she continued staring through the glass. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the Sophia to whom Gregory had been alluding.

Her person, I will pause to say, was such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. She’d a heart shaped face. Her hair, thick and dark, was secured at the back in a neat bun at the back. In height she might have been somewhat shorter than myself, with a natural slenderness that was accentuated by a tight fitting drop-waist of dark blue. This garment was buttoned from her throat to her hips. Decorative braiding gave it a military air that was relieved only by a fall of lace at her throat. This, at time when a lady’s garments were embellished with frou-frous and furbelows to the point of absurdity, was unusual. I did not recognize it as a forerunner of the clothing reform movement. I was simply envious.

Even as I noted these things, I found myself intrigued by the intensity of her concentration. When she set the instrument down at last and sighed, I did as well, in sympathy.

“It is a forgery,” she said, as though speaking to herself. “Dr. Phillips will be most unhappy when I inform him that he has been taken advantage of.”

I could not resist asking, “How can you tell?”

“Oh!” At the sound of my voice, she seemed to wake to our presence, and pulled a sheet of blotting paper over the map. “Stamford! How nice to see you.”

“Sophia,” he said. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

“I could not resist such an intriguing note.”

“I was hoping you would feel that way,” Stamford said. “Allow me to introduce my dear friend Johanna Watson. She has a problem that may be of interest you. Miss Watson, Miss Sophia Holmes.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I said, as she stood and took the hand I offered in a surprisingly strong grip.

“You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive,” said she.


	2. Chapter 2

“Why, yes,” I said, taken completely aback. “I have recently returned from that part of the world.”

“My apologies, Doctor. I spoke without thinking. It is a personal failing of mine. You recently lost a brother. Allow me to express my condolences.”

“Yes. My youngest brother, Jonathon, was in the army. He died of an enteric fever in the spring. I accompanied my father when he went out Jalalabad to bring his body back to England. But how could you know that?”

“I could not help observing that you are in mourning, and that the cameo at your throat depicts a soldier borne to heaven in the arms of an angel. It is exquisite, by the way; the best work of the jewel cutters of the region. But never mind that. Come and sit and tell me your problem. Let me fix you some tea. I believe the reason you are here has some bearing upon your profession as a doctor.”

Exchanging a wondering look with Stamford, I climbed up on a laboratory stool. Miss Holmes busied herself with a Bunsen lamp, a ring stand, and a small kettle.

“Now,” she said, reclaiming her own seat, when the kettle was heating. “Describe the circumstances that bring you here and, please, leave nothing out.”

“I share a practice in Soho with my uncle. A young woman came into the surgery today, asking particularly to see him. When I explained that he was unavailable, she panicked, and ran away. In her haste, she dropped this reticule. I would not have thought so much importance to the incident, except that…I believe there is blood on a pen that I found inside.”

I produced the reticule, but I before I could set it on the desk, Miss Holmes said, “Wait!”  Removing the map on which she had been working from the table to a drawer, she laid down a fresh piece of blotting paper. “Put it here.” I did as she told me. “Now, we shall see. While I examine this article, and its contents, you will describe the person to whom it belonged.”

“Well, I think—”

“Don’t think, Doctor! Describe. I find the unmediated response more likely to be the truth. How old was she?”

Although, taken aback by the brusqueness of that command, I saw the anxious young face in my mind’s eye. “Perhaps fifteen,” I said.

“Hair! What color and style?”

“Black. With ringlets in front.”

“Eyes?”

“Blue.”

“Her clothing? Everything she wore, that you can recall.”

“A small round bonnet. It was blue with black and white feathers and tipped over her right eye. There was short red feather boa about her neck. Her dress was dark green. I could see the hem her petticoat. The petticoat was red, as well. There was a mole on her breast.” Without thinking, I touched the very place on my own breast “Her eyes—she’d been crying—and her mascara had run!” I recalled the tin of French rouge, now sitting on the blotter. “I assumed she was a prostitute!”

“Thank you, Doctor. That will be enough. It is a great mistake to theorize in advance of facts,” Miss Holmes said. “Nonetheless, that was excellent. Your medical training has made you an astute observer, if perhaps too quick to jump to a conclusion.”

I confess to feeling rather stung by her comments. The whole time that I had been speaking, Miss Holmes had been spreading the contents of the reticule upon the blotting paper, then picking each item up and examined it with the magnifying glass. After examining the pen, she had set it apart from the other items.

Next, she examined the fabric of the bag itself, discovering a stain on the bottom, which I had overlooked. Then she turned it inside out, the stain was smaller and darker on the lining inside.

“Is it blood?” Stamford said.

“We will see,” said Miss Holmes.

The kettle was now steaming. Miss Holmes removed it from the ring stand and poured the water into a brown pot over tea leaves she had shaken out of a gray, salt-glazed crock.

While the tea steeped, she took two glass beakers from a cabinet and drew about a liter of water into each. Fascinated, Stamford and I watched her roll tufts of cotton around the tips of two sticks. She moistened one and rolled it over the pen. The other she moistened and touched to the stained fabric. Both swabs came away equally rusty. Each was dipped into one of the prepared beakers. “You will observe,” said Miss Holmes. “That the resulting mixtures both have the appearance of pure water. If either substance is blood, the proportion cannot be more than one in a million. But, if either is blood, I have no doubt of obtaining the characteristic reaction,” she said, throwing a handful of fine white crystals into each, and adding some drops of a transparent fluid.

In an instant, the contents of one assumed a dull mahogany color, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the beaker. In the other, thin filaments of red spread through the water but dissolved the instant she picked up the beaker and shook it, leaving the mixture quite transparent.

Setting the beaker down, Miss Holmes picked up the reticule again, held it close to her nose and sniffed it. Then, she touched the tip of her finger to the fabric. As with the swab, it came away with a red stain. Thoughtfully, she licked it, and said, “It’s blood.”

“Oh—!” I cried.

 “For heaven’s sake, Sophy!” Stamford ejaculated.

“But it is not the sort of blood that comes from any living creature,” she said, laughing at our horrified expressions.

“What on earth, do you mean?” I said.

“Syrup and red dye. Dr. Watson. It is stage blood. So, while it is possible your runaway patient is a prostitute, it is just as likely that she is an aspiring actress.”

Now, I found myself laughing with her. “Please, call me Johanna,” I said.

“And you may call me Sophia,” she said, smiling a particularly sweet smile.

“You have relieved my mind, Sophia,” said I.

“Thank you. I wish mine were so relieved.” Her expression again became grave. “That the stain on the reticule is stage blood does not mean there is nothing to be alarmed about. I’m afraid the color on the pen really is blood.” She drew our attention to the other beaker. “Observe the rusty precipitate on the bottom.” With the same grave expression, she stared at the beaker, tapping her lip. Then, suddenly, she shot an amused look in Stamford’s direction. “Gregory, admit you have taken gross advantage of Johanna.”

“What?” said I. “How? I was concerned for the girl.”

“Yes, you were; I commend you for it. But Gregory used your concern as an excuse to bring you here, and introduce us, when he knew that I had no intention of socializing this evening, and, in fact, planned to be working here, alone.” Stamford’s shrug and guilty expression revealed the truth of her observation. “But as it happens, I was so bored with Phillips’s maps; such obvious fakes. He will be taken for a ride; he can’t help himself. And so, Gregory, I can’t thank you enough. You and Johanna, have brought me an interesting problem. Somewhere, someone is in serious trouble.”

“So I feared, but what makes you certain? Who is it? And how do we find them?”

“My dear, Johanna, the first is elementary. When someone appears in a surgery, agitated and desirous of consulting a doctor, I believe it’s safe to say that someone is in trouble. As to the rest, problems of this nature are best considered over a cup of tea.”

She proceeded to wipe her hands, and pour the tea through a strainer into small beakers, one for each of us.

“Lump sugar?” she said, offering a jar of white cubes. “Another weakness,” she said, adding several lumps to her own beaker, which she stirred with a glass rod. “One of many, I fear. So many, I cannot conceive how someone could ever think of living with me.

“Now, the question is who is in trouble. Is it the person who appeared in an agitated state, or is that person merely agitated on behalf of someone else? First principles: start with the known and proceed to the unknown. Someone wishes to see a doctor. But not just any doctor. You, Johanna, will not do. They insist on a particular doctor. It must be your uncle. Being denied; they run. Do you often inspire that response, by the way?”

“I have had patients, usually men, who refuse to let me treat them. They will insist on being seen by Uncle Robert.”

“Do they run from you in headlong flight?”

“No. This is the first time I’ve had such a thing happen. It’s usually more of a dignified retreat.”

“Let us note that and put it aside, while we consider the reticule.” Sophia picked up the glass rod she had used to stir her tea, and used it as a pointer. “Black satin and lace – very impractical – there is already a hole worn through the lining. It was purchased second-hand – you can see the seller’s mark. But it is just the sort of thing that would appeal to a young woman. A young woman with aspirations. Now, the contents: five pence, a mirror, a comb, a tin of rouge, and a pen. Leaving the coins out of the equation, one of these things is not like the others.”

“The pen!” I cried.

“Good. You observed that I set it apart,” Sophia said. “Now, tell me what makes it different.”

“It’s new,” I said.

“It’s expensive,” said Stamford, not to be left out of the fun.

“Excellent! Both of you.” Sophia picked up the pen. “Tortoise shell with 14ct gold fittings. See the hallmark. The barrel is unscratched.” She unscrewed the top. “The threads are clean, other than the little blood which has seeped under, and the nib shows no wear. Not only that, this little treasure carries it’s fuel and feeds itself. It is a rich man’s toy, or a gift to a beloved son, a husband, or a lover. One who writes, frequently. Not an author or a newspaperman. A student, a lawyer, or a politician  remains to be seen. But taking it, all in all, I feel it’s reasonable to conclude that we are hunting for a man; one who has sustained some accident, or deliberate injury.”

“Where shall we begin to look,” said I.

“Now Johanna!” Stamford said. “The girl could turn up tomorrow, looking for her property.”

“Unlikely,” Sophia said.

“But we cannot get involved.”

“Can we not, Gregory? I assure you, I can; someone’s life depends on it. Look at Johanna’s face; she is eager to begin.”

It was true. The last forty minutes had been a revelation to me. I had caught a glimpse of a mind like none I had ever imagined. This woman, Sophia Holmes, did not just perceive the world; she saw it clearly, and had made a game of it. A great game, which I discovered I wanted to play, as well.

“But…” Stamford started to object, again.

I interrupted him, impatiently. “How do we start?” I said.

“As before, with what is known. The stain on the reticule was, without a doubt, accidental, but stage blood is usually confined to the vicinity of a stage, so that is where we will start. What is the address of your uncle’s surgery?” I told her. “There are seven music halls in Soho, within a mile’s radius of that address. Johanna, you mentioned the young woman’s petticoat particularly. Was it splashed with mud?”

“No.” I did not know how I was sure, yet I was sure of it.

“That eliminates the three to the south of Brewer Street, where they are tearing up the cobblestones. She would not have been able to cross without having her skirts splashed. That leaves us with Wilton’s, The Eagle, The Coal Hole, and The Variety.” Sophia looked at Stamford, and there was more than a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Which of those, would you say, is the most infamous?”

“I-I have no opinion on the matter. I don’t frequent that sort of establishment!”

“Oh!” I said. “And you were the anatomy student always singing ‘A Young Man Taken and Done For’ to the subjects in the dissecting-rooms. Where did you learn the words, if not _that_ sort of establishment?”

“Johanna!” Stamford wailed. “How can you?”

“From which we may deduce that you are just the gentleman to escort us to the theater this evening.” Sophia stood up. “Let me get my coat.”

“Sophia! Johanna! I can’t take the two of you to a place like that.”

Sophia’s dark eyes met mine.

“Then the two of us will just have to go without you,” she said.

Poor Stamford. He hadn’t a chance.


	3. Chapter 3

A hansom is not intended for the comfort of more than two passengers. I was rather squashed between Sophia and Stamford, who were discussing the rival merits of the four music halls that had not been eliminated from consideration. As Stamford had a tendency to digress upon the impropriety of what we were doing, Sophia carried the bulk of the argument. This was fortunate as I had no opinion to advance, and was further distracted by the sense of excitement and adventure that was suddenly bubbling up inside me.

It was a lightness of being I had not experienced since Jonathon’s death. He had been the brother closest to me in age, and in temperament, and I believe that if he had been allowed to follow his own inclinations, and not suffered from such a strong sense of filial duty, he would have made a wonderful doctor. His tragedy was that, following the revelation of Albert Victor’s indiscretions, he had obeyed our father’s wishes and joined the army.

The news of his death had left my mother prostrate and it was I who had accompanied my father out to Afghanistan. One evening, shortly after our ship had entered the straits of Hormuz, he had drunk a too much brandy. This led him express his deep bitterness at Uncle Robert for having thrown his money away educating a female, when he might have chosen to sponsor Jonathon.

As he had not mentioned the subject since prophesying my spinsterhood, I risked asking him if he had ever broached the subject with his brother. To give him credit, he admitted the only thing that had prevented him was his pride. In the years since, I had learned more about Victor Albert’s indiscretion (My father would have been appalled to know how much more I learned.) and what it had cost the family financially. I understand how humiliating it would have been to have approached his younger brother, and I don’t blame him, but that one conversation, and my own deep rage at Jonathon’s futile death, had left me prey to bouts of guilt and black depression.

That evening, as we clip-clopped toward the streets of Soho, to find that despair lifting was such a curious sensation, that I almost didn’t recognize it as happiness; I felt as if I were floating. It was a turn in the discussion between Stamford and Sophia that recalled me to earth.

Stamford was insisting that, if we must persist in this indiscretion, that we start at The Variety.

“Gregory,” Sophia said, “the very fact that you are promoting it so strongly, indicates that it’s too respectable for our purposes.” She turned and rapped on the panel between the passenger compartment and cabdriver. “Jarvey!”

The driver opened the panel. “Yes, Miss?”

“Which theater in Soho presents the most sordid and perverse musical revue?”

In the most blasé manner possible, the jarvey said, “You looking for girls, or for boys, or for sport, Miss?”

“All,” Sophia said, after giving the matter due consideration.

“That would be the Coal ‘ole, Miss,” the jarvey said.

“Then take us to the Coal Hole, please,” Sophia said. “There’s a half a crown in it, if you hurry.”

The driver promptly slammed the panel, gave a touch to his horse, and took the next corner on one wheel.

“Sophie!” Stamford expostulated.

“Gregory! I will think much less of you, if you persist in this mealy-mouthed hypocrisy. Do not speak, unless it’s you can propose an alternative to the Coal Hole.”

Thus challenged, he said, “The Eagle.”

“Thank you. If we fail to discover anything of interest at the Coal Hole, we will try The Eagle.” Sophia gave a sudden laugh. “But the very name Coal Hole reeks of shadows and secrets.”

“General Booth has been trying to shut it down for years,” I said, and then found myself blushing under my companion’s sudden interest. “The Army regularly brings petitions around for Uncle Robert to sign.”

“Even more promising,” Sophia said.

It was my only contribution to the conversation, as I could not repeat Uncle Robert’s often stated opinion of the Salvation Army.

The Coal Hole lay in an Alley off of Dean Street. We alit from the cab and walked through double doors into what had obviously once been a Public House, and was still retained as a bar through which Stamford escorted us into a hall that had been built in the space behind the block of houses.

The theater was a great rectangular room with a single gallery on three sides. Upon entering, my senses were immediately assaulted by a strong smell of cigar smoke and crowded humanity, and a veritable babel of racket which quickly resolved into a thread bright, tinkling music with an undercurrent of many ongoing conversations, and the clinking of cutlery.

The seating arrangements highly informal and I would have despaired of finding a table, but here Stamford showed his mettle. After a brief survey of the floor, he escorted us to a table where two very young, well-dressed men were seated. They were lounging and smoking. One of them, with a splendid set of side whiskers was leaning upon a third empty chair. He looked up as we approached and nudged his friend. Both stood, the one doffing his hat, and bowing and smiling at Sophia and myself. I am not precisely sure how he did it, but Stamford proceeded to seat the two of us, and then he simply took the third seat and said, “Thank you, gentlemen,” as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

There was nothing for the two of them to do but cede their ground.

“Gregory,” Sophia said. “You have unsuspected depths. Can you procure some refreshment for us, as well?”

“Sophie, I hope I don’t live to regret this.” Stamford sighed and signaled a waiter. “What would you like?”

“Regret,” she said, “is a useless emotion. There is experience to be gained here. I’ll have a Dubonnet and lemon, please.”

I, having no experience with cocktails, but willing to cram, asked for the same.

Stamford, stating our desires to the waiter, ordered a gin fizz for himself.

He had to shout to be heard over the noise. The Coal Hole was unlike any theater I had ever attended before. There was an acrobatic troupe performing on the stage but, except for a few on the front benches, none of the patrons were paying much attention to the ladies’ contortions. More or less private conversations seemed to be the order of the day. This being the case, I impulsively turned to Sophia.

“Pardon me, Miss Holmes…”

“I will not if you persist in calling me Miss Holmes,” she said. “We are colleagues in adventure, after all.”

“My apologies, Sophia,” I said. “But I feel an unwarranted curiosity about your position at the Museum. How did you come about it?”

“Nothing could be simpler. My father was a chemist, and a believer in female emancipation. My grandmother was a sister of the French painter Vernet and, when it appeared that I had inherited her talent, he allowed me to take instruction at the Courtaud. As you know, the course of study requires one to copy the work of the masters. One of my instructors observed that I had a knack for copying, particularly the works of the Dutch School. He introduced me to a restorer at the Museum, who wished for an understudy, and did not have an opinion about their sex as long as they had an eye and a hand for replication. I have more than an eye and so I have become a consulting expert.” She laughed. “It was that or a career in art forgery. Art in the blood can take the strangest form.”

While Sophia had been speaking, the waiter had brought our cocktails, (I found mine to be pleasant and refreshing, despite a bitter note of quinine.)

I found myself laughing along with her, but Stamford said, “You could always marry, you know.”

“I could,” she said. “But I doubt it would it be nearly as interesting. My mind craves puzzles.”

“Don’t you think true love is a puzzle?”

“I don’t think there is any such thing.”

The acrobatic act having concluded, the curtains had closed. Now, as a piano stuck up a lively tune, they opened again, and two couples came prancing out of the wings. They bowed to the audience, then bowed to each other, and, face to face, began to sing, _“Hands knees and Boomps-a-Daisy! I like a bustle that bends…”_ following the words by clapping hand, bending their knees, then turning around, bending over, and bumping their backsides!

_Hands knees and Boomps-a-Daisy!  
What is a boomp between friends?_

The audience began to pay more attention…

_And it's hands knees and Boomps-a-Daisy!  
Turn to your partner and bow - Bow Wow!_

…shouting _Boomps-a-Daisy_ out loud, along with the singers.

Stamford’s eyes were on the performance, but Sophia, I noticed, observed the hall. I leaned over and whispered, “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I’ll know when I see it.”

I began to look about, as well, studying the members of the audience. Quite a lot of it—distinguished by red faces, caps, and rough tweeds—were of the laboring classes. They were accompanied by equally red-faced wives, and sweethearts, in respectable bonnets. Yet I saw a good number of what Uncle Robert would have described as arrogant young swells, much like the two Stamford had evicted from our table. Glossy, well groomed men. One of them, catching my eye, blatantly ogled me. I looked deliberately away, reconsidering what those two had thought Sophia and I were. Because, as my eye became attuned, I perceived there were a surprising number of women who were, obviously, no one’s wife, or sweetheart. Except temporarily.

The Boomps-a-Daisy song ended. A line of cancan dancers took the stage. They executed a vigorous rendition of the dance to great approval, especially at the hearts embroidered on their bloomers. At Stamford’s signal, a waiter appeared with another round of drinks for us, just before a female took the stage to sing _Beautiful Dreamer_. The lady had a sweet face and a soulful tenor that was particularly affecting and, for the most part, the audience was respectful of her effort. (I was charmed by the entranced expression on Stamford’s face.) Yet, as I sipped my drink, I became aware of an air of expectation in hall. And, as the singer finished, and the curtain closed, a drunk in the gallery called, “Where’s Fanny?”

It was a signal. The audience began to clap, and a general cry of, “Where’s Fanny?” was taken up. I knew _Where’s Fanny?_ It was a popular song several years ago. (My mother’s name was Frances; my father used to tease her with it.)

The piano began to tinkle. The hall grew quiet, but when the curtain opened to reveal a young man, there was a low rumbling mutter. In spite of it the young man began his song. The chorus was about two lovely black eyes, but the verse was political and, when the lyric mentioned Gladstone, a man tossed an apple at the stage, yelling, “Where’s Fanny?”

The thrower didn’t sound particularly hostile, but the same could not be said of the singer. He caught the apple, and flung it back hard, pointing and saying, “I can see yer! Try that again and I’ll kick yer arse ‘outta ‘ere meself!”

The audience cheered.

As soon as she spoke, I recognized her, despite the lurid stage lighting, and clutched Sophia’s wrist.

“That’s her! That’s the girl!”

“Where?” said Sophia.

“Who?” said Stamford.

“On the stage! The girl who came to the surgery! That’s him. I mean that’s her!”

“Are you sure?” Stamford looked dismayed but not, I noticed, especially shocked.

“It’s the same voice,” I said, “the same height, and the same blue eyes. She’s…he’s…” I stared at the two of them, realizing I could not say for certain if he was she, or she was he.

Sophia stood up. “We need to make our way back stage,” she said.

“Sophie!” Now, Stamford did look aghast. “You can’t!”

“Then who can? Tell me that, you mealy-mouthed hypocrite!” I stood up, too, but discovered my sense of balance was a bit off. “Boomps-a-Daisy,” I said, but Sophia caught my elbow and steadied me before I fell.

“Take her other arm, Gregory,” she said. “Johanna is tipsy.”

 

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

The piano had faltered, but now it picked up again as the ‘girl’ on stage continued her ditty. Down in the benches the neighbors of the man who had first thrown the apple had taken violent exception to being spattered with the pulp. (The apple had been rotten.) These persons were expressing themselves to the original sinner, much to the annoyance of those in the immediate vicinity who, by variously shushing and prodding, were causing the irritation to spread like ripples in a pool.

I was, with Stamford on one side and Sophia on the other, was unaware of this as  my attention was fully occupied attempting to negotiate a floor that had assumed the nature of a ship’s deck, prior to a would-be sailor achieving his sea legs, in that each footfall landed sooner or too later than I expected it to.

“Let us take you home, Johanna,” Stamford said.

“A little fresh air,” I said, “and I’ll be trite as a rivet.”

“You mean right as trivet,” Sophia said. “But I agree with Gregory. This time. We can return tomorrow.”

“Oh, no,” said I. “By tomorrow Stamford will have recalled a previous engagement. Won’t you _Gregory?_ ”

“Johanna! I’m not that poor spirited.”

“But you’ll do your best to talk us out of it.”

“Yes! I will! This is whole expedition has been completely irresponsible.”

“We can find another escort,” Sophia whispered in my ear. “I’m sorry; I should have warned you about drinking that cocktail too quickly. The lemonade disguises the liquor.”

The whole time we had been speaking, we were making our way toward the back of the hall and, as I have said, the hall was crowded. As we were about to enter the passageway to the bar, we were confronted by a figure that stepped out from the shadows under the gallery. A gentleman by his dress, if not his manners, he ignored both Sophia and myself, tipping his hat and speaking only to Stamford. “How much?” he said.

After a shocked pause on the part, I believe, of all three of us, Stamford said, “Get out of the way!”

“But, sir,” the man said “I can’t help noticing you have a delightful overabundance of ladies. Let me take at least one of them off your hands.”

I recognized him. It was the tony swell who’d ogled me earlier.

“You’re mistaken,” I said. “I’m a doctor, not a doxy!”

“Excellent!” he said. “I’ve a painful swelling in need of attention.”

Of course, I’d never seen him box, but, in college, Stamford was famous for his punishing right. I must say, the blow he landed on that coxcomb’s chin lived up to his reputation. Nose bleeding, the man staggered backwards into the passageway, and collided with a tall woman who was attempting to come through.

“Ooo ‘her, luv,” she said, in a base baritone. “What cher goin’?”

He looked around, and said, “Fuck off, you old Nellie!”

Whereupon, she seized him by the throat and proceeded to slam him back and forth against the wall; the whole time, in no uncertain terms, telling the world that he was no gentlemen. A sentiment with which I found myself in perfect agreement.

The incident did not go unobserved. There had been other patrons behind us who were attempting to leave, and still others in the bar who were attempting to come in. The noise level rose as the people at the back of both groups discovered the passage was blocked. I noticed waiters putting their trays down, and a number of large and determined looking men converging on the spot where three of us were standing.

Sophia, with great presence of mind, took me by the hand and Stamford by the elbow. “Come on,” she said, “there’s another way out down here,” and drew us along the wall under the gallery where to a door that opened into a long hall. Another door at the end of the hall opened to the alley.

The cold air outside was a slap to the face, although, it reeked of stale…of unmentionable smells. I hadn’t realized the cumulative effect tobacco and liquor can have and, though not ready to sign the pledge, I was grateful to be shocked into sobriety.

Stamford leaned against the brick, nursing his bruised knuckles.

“Let me see that hand,” I took it in mine, felt the bones and manipulated the fingers, making sure nothing was broken. “Gregory, you were incredible, but never do that again.”

“I shouldn’t have had to do it in the first place,” he said. “Can I, at least, hope the two of you understand the risk you put yourselves in? Can we go, please?”

“You can, you like,” Sophia said. “But we’ve found the stage entrance and I would like to see this through.” There was a short flight of stairs where the alley came to a dead-end and Sophia started toward it.

I followed her and, to my surprise, Stamford made no objection. In fact, he stood away from the wall and followed us. Looking back, I believe that having given flesh and blood to the enterprise he was at heart as committed to seeing it to the end as ourselves.

We climbed the stairs. The door was not locked but there was a grizzled watchdog sitting behind a desk inside, guarding the way. He looked up from the dime novel he was reading as we entered. “Yeah?”

I would have had no idea what to say, but Sophia simply said, “Where’s Fanny?”

“Not going on tonight,” Cerberus said. “Lady’s unwell.”

“I understand,” Sophia said. “Nonetheless, we’d like to offer our condolences and best wishes for her speedy recovery.”

“Not seein’ anyone, either.”

“It’s important that we speak with her.”

“You deef?” Cerberus made to stand.

Two of the cancan dancers, who were standing above, smoking, glanced over the handrail. I saw, despite their frills and curls, that they were men. Rather large men.

“Please,” Sophia said. “My companions are both doctors. Please tell her that Dr. Watson is here.”

He looked hard at Sophia. Then his eyes flicked over Stamford and myself. “Wait here,” he said, and vanished down the stairs. It didn’t sound promising, but he was only gone for a few minutes. When he came back, he said, “Dressin’ room with the three on it.”

It was fortunate he said it, because although most of the doors along that grimy corridor were open, the doors were numbered randomly and some of the numbers so scratched over it was impossible to guess what they’d been. As we hurried along, I caught fascinating glimpses of mirrored lights, sequins and powerful calves in net stockings and lacy garters.

Number three was at the end. It was closed.

Sophia knocked.

A voice inside said come in.

The room we entered smelled of talcum powder and French perfume. I had never been in such a place (Another first in an evening of many.) and my first impression was a shambles of color that derived from the beaded lampshade draped with a paisley shawl and the feathered boas and scarves that seemed to have been tossed haphazardly everywhere. There was a vase of wilted yellow roses on the mirrored dressing table that was lit by gas jets on either side. Its work surface was littered with a profusion of pots of make-up, and pencils, and sable brushes. There were wigs of blonde, black, brown, and bright red hair. At the end of the room was a painted Chinese screen with various female garments draped over it.

A boy stepped from behind the screen; I could see from his reddened eyes that he had been crying.  I recognized him. He recognized me as well.

“You! What are you doin’ here,” he said. “Temple said Dr. Robert was comin’ down.

“A mistake,” Sophia said. “I told him to say that Dr. Watson was here and, indeed, she is.”

The boy (I was as sure as I could be of his sex, by now) looked me with perfect horror.

“Please,” I said. “I am a physician. This is Dr. Stamford. We’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to find you; at least tell us what the matter is and let us help you.”

“Not me,” the boy said, and broke into tears again.  “Fan.”

“Nicky? Who’s there?” said someone behind the screen. There was a daybed behind it.

“Your friend,” I said. “Let me see her.”

Nicky moved to block my way.

“Some men did for ‘er in the alley last night.”

“Is that Dr. Robert?”

“Some other pill pushers, Fan.” Nicky said.

“Send them away!”

‘Fanny’s’ was the voice of a young and very frightened boy and I was fed up delay.

“Get some soap and hot water,” I ordered Nicky. “We need to wash our hands. Gregory?”

He had already taken off his coat and was rolling up his sleeves. “Bring some clean towels, as well,” he said.

It will not bring you up short when I tell you that, while Nicky ran to fill our requests, we moved the screen to make more room, and discovered that ‘Fanny’ was a young man.

I had no way of telling, if made up and in costume, he would have passed convincingly as a female, or not. He had been beaten within an inch of his life.

One of his eyes was swollen shut and I was not sure if he could see me out of the other, or not, so I introduced myself. “Good evening,” I said. “I’m Dr. Johanna Watson. Dr. Robert is my uncle. I’m sorry he was not available when you sent for him this afternoon. He was engaged with friends.” Nicky had returned with the water and towel. “This Dr. Stamford. We’re going to try and help you.”

“Hello,” ‘Fanny’ whispered.

“I take it that Fanny is a stage name. What shall we call you?”

At first I feared that he wouldn’t answer. Finally, he said, “Call me Lely.”

“Alright, Mr. Lely,” I said. “How do you come to know my uncle?”

“Treats the…girls,” ‘Lely’ gasped.

“Well, Mr. Lely, we’re going to treat you, Dr. Stamford and I.”

When performing the physical examination of a man, I find best to treat the situation as though it were the most natural thing in world. We determined that Stanhope had been thoroughly beaten, although the assailants seemed to have given particular attention to his face. He was certainly feverish, but it looked as if he might have escaped with nothing worse than a broken nose, a few cracked ribs and some lost teeth, until Stamford pointed to the stains on the sheet beneath him.

“I’m sorry to cause you more pain,” I said. “But we’re going to turn you on your side.” Out of respect for his feelings, I let Stamford perform the most intimate part. As Nicky had said, ‘Lely’ ‘had been done for’…he was still bleeding. When we had laid him down and covered him again, I said, “We must get you to hospital.”

“No! No hospital,” ‘Lely’ said.

“There’s too great a risk of sepsis,” Stamford said.

“No!”

“You’re being unreasonable. You could die!”

No,” Sophia came around the screen. “He’s not being unreasonable, he’s being respectable. ‘Lely’, here, is actually Lord Stanhope, Wakefield’s youngest son.”

“Oh, God!” Stamford said.

“Exactly,” Sophia said. “If he ends up in hospital, there’ll be no keeping it out of the press.”

“How did you know?” the boy husked.

“Your birthday was yesterday. Your mother gave you a tortoiseshell pen with gold fittings.” While Stamford and I had been examining the boy, Sophia had been doing more than comforting Nicky. Now she held out an embossed note card. “This was in your coat pocket. She wrote you quite a lovely note, although, I take it she doesn’t know about your…ah… theatrical hobby?”

“It would kill her if she found out.”

“You would rather she live with the pain of your death?”

“No!”

“Then don’t argue with your doctors,” Sophia said.

“We don’t have to take him to the hospital,” I suddenly realized. “There’s a bed at the surgery. There’s morphine there, so we can at least make him more comfortable. And Uncle Robert should have returned home by now.”

“Good idea,” Sophia said. “Nicky, run and procure a hackney?

“On my way!” Nicky was gone.

“Perhaps some of the dancers can help can carry this daybed out into the alley. Then we can lay him on the floor of the carriage…” I was still thinking out loud.

It was a good plan and it would have worked except that, the door burst open and someone yelled, “Peelers! Run for it!”

 

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

“It’s a raid! Move it quick, ‘less you want to wind up in pokey!”

There was a stampede out in the hall, and a distant shrilling of whistles was accompanied by the drumming of feet and the ceiling rained dust.

As the three of us, Sophia, Stamford and I, exchanged horrified looks, the man who had burst in on us made to leave, but then paused with one hand on the door frame. He looked down the hall and back at us. “You coming or not?”

“Let’s go!” Stamford said, shrugging his coat on. “We’ll have to leave Stanhope.”

“He’ll be arrested!” I objected.

“He can’t walk, much less run, in that condition and, when the press gets hold of this, there’ll be a scandal. You can’t be associated with that Johanna!”

“I’m staying,” I announced. “He might die!”

“The rest of you waiting for an engraved invitation, or what?” Our man was looking at us as if we were bedlamites. Despite his impressive breadth of shoulder the top of a spangled costume showed beneath his tweed coat and his features still showed vivid traces of rice powder, rouge and blue eye-shadow. I recognized him as one of the cancan dancers.

“Please, this man is gravely ill,” Sophia took hold of his arm. “Is there another way out?”

He made to shake her off, but she cried out, “It’s Fanny!”

I would not, under the circumstances, have given a farthing such an appeal would have worked, yet the man looked into Sophia’s heart shaped face, and said, “S’truth?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t let our star be nicked, can we?”

He stepped back in and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket with which he wiped his face, leaving it even more streaked than before. Then in two strides he was across the room, and had Stanhope scooped up in his arms.

“God bless you,” I said. “What is your name.”

“You call me Hilde,” he said. “And one of you’s going to owe me.”

“I have money,” Stanhope said.

“You better. Buncha amateurs,” the man said, exactly the way one might say cockroaches. “Let’s go.”

We followed him into the hall, which, by now, was quite empty. Temple had vanished from his post at the top of the steps, and the back stage lights were out. The stagehands must have brought the green curtain down as soon as the raid started; the canvas fire-curtain, as well, so that the noise of the mêlée that was occurring on the other side in hall was surprisingly muffled. On our side, the way out was blocked by the last stragglers, a gaggle of musicians, hugging their instruments close to their chests. They stood bunched up at the door and I couldn’t tell what they were waiting for, until one of them poked his head out and then announced, “It’s clear! Let’s go!”

They ran down the steps but, instead of running toward the street, and certain capture, they hurried in the other direction. That end of the alley appeared to terminate in a brick wall but Hilde, with Stanhope in his arm, followed them closely. We hearing a shilling of approaching whistles, perforce, followed him. I soon saw that there was a narrow gap between the buildings. It had been closed off with a board that Temple was holding open.

“That it?” he said, as we arrived.

“That’s it,” said a man clutching a violin case. “Have you seen Fred? Has anyone seen…?”

“Glen, shut up and move yer bloody arse.” Temple grabbed him by the shoulder and shoving him through the doorway. “He’ll meet you at The Ship.”

One by one, the musicians pushed into that narrow passageway. Then it was our turn, first Hilde carrying Stanhope, and then myself, and then Sophia. Stamford was the last. Before he could squeeze through, a voice shouted, “Stop! In the name of the law!”

“Jazus Christ!” I heard Temple say.

“Go! Run Jo!” Stamford said. “I’ll hold them.”

The board was slammed into place and I heard Temple cursing Stamford behind me. I was torn, but my duty to my patient came first and Hilde was already ahead of me. I hurried fast as I could. Sophia behind me. The sound of fighting quickly faded. The walkway was so narrow our skirts brushed the walls. Ahead of me, someone stumbled and cursed in the darkness. “Will you move!” our rescuer said to someone ahead. “This bint’s no lightweight.”

It was well he spoke up or we would have missed it when he ducked into a doorway. A steel door on a spring slammed behind us and we found ourselves in some kind of factory. In the vague light that came through the windows, I could see shadowed rows of sewing machines and tables stacked with piles of cut fabric.

We followed the sound of Hilde’ footsteps across the wooden floor, through another door and down a corridor, where there was another opening in another wall, and yet another turn. It was disorienting inside that warren of passages. I have no idea how many buildings were so connected but the ways were ancient; I know that we crossed at least one cobbled alleyway that had been roofed over. Now and then, a member of our group would murmur, “See you at the Ship,” veer off and vanish in the dark.

In the end, when it was the four of us alone, it seemed safe to ask, “What will happen to Gregory?”

“Tony boy gets arrested and thumped a bit,” Hilde panted. “He’s smart; he gives a wrong name and pays his fine. He’ll prob’ly come up trumps.”

I could only marvel at Hilde’s strength, but I could tell from the sound of his labored breathing, that he was clearly at the end it. What would happen if he should drop Stanhope. The thought of Sophia and myself in the dark was accompanied by the eerie rustle of Sophia’s and my taffetas, brought on a hideous rush of panic. Sophia must have sensed my fluttering heart. In the dark and her hand found mine and held on to mine until, eventually, we emerged into a darkened courtyard. I could smell a communal privy and feel paving stones, slippery with moss, under my shoes.

Hilde was spent. He stumbled to his knees beside a rain barrel, not quite dropping Stanhope. I sank down beside him and felt for a pulse.

“You’re on your own now.” Hilde lurched to his feet.

“Please, we’ll pay you,” Sophia said.

“It was your man ‘ad the money.”

“I can…” I was going to say I could pay him but, with a sinking feeling, I remembered I’d left my reticule in the dressing room.

“We’ll see that you get money,” Sophia said. “Just tell us where to find you.”

“Miss, I got a wife and a family, I ain’t giving you—”

“Who’s that there?” a man’s voice said.

“Mind yer own business, pally,” Hilde snapped over his shoulder, “if you know what’s good for you.”

“I hope that’s not me you’re talking to, boyo,” the same voice said, as the light of a bull’s-eye lantern illuminated our little group.

The lantern was in the hand a short, rat-faced man in a bowler hat. I could see the taller form of a uniformed constable lurking behind him. All around the court was the sound of windows being slammed shut.

“See Clarkie,” Bowler Hat said, “where there’s a rat ‘ole, you’ll find rats. Summon the Maria down here. On your feet, you lot! I’m placing you under arrest.”

As the constable raised a whistle to his lip, I cried, “No!” The word popped out of my mouth. Considering everything, our scrambled escape from the theater, Stamford’s probably arrest, my hideous fright… To be cornered in this squalid court was… It was infuriating! “You can’t arrest us!!”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Bowler Hat said, “Oh, I can, Miss. But don’t you worry your head, we’re like a mother’s heart down the station; there’s always room for one more.”

“But I’m a doctor. This man is sick!”

“I’m sure the judge will take that into account!”

The constable snickered.

“How dare you! You can’t do this!”

“I certainly can, Missy,” said Bowler Hat.

I could tell he thought I was lying. Subsequently, I’ve become well acquainted with the gentleman at Scotland Yard but, until that particular night, policemen were simply not a factor in my life. (Uncle Robert was socially acquainted with Sir Charles Warren, but I had never heard him speak of the Commissioner of Police with any great respect.) I could not believe that ratty little man, seriously intended to lock us up! It was Sophia who saved us.

“Sergeant Lestrade,” she said, “may I have a word with you first?”

“’Ang on Clarkie!” Bowler Hat said, to my great relief, for the constable had raised his whistle again. “Is that you, Miss Holmes?”

“It is. A quick word, please. It will be to everyone’s advantage, believe me.”

And, while I kept Stanhope’s face covered, and Hilde tried to avoid the glare of Clarkie’s lantern, Sophia and Sergeant Lestrade went off in the shadows. Most of their conversation was conducted a in tones too low to make out, but there was no doubt about Lestrade’s explosive, “Good God!” 

Seconds later Clarkie was gone, running down the street with the words, “Go! Go!” ringing behind him, and Lestrade had Hilde pushed up against a wall and was informing him in no uncertain terms of the outcome should he fail to disappear just as quickly. Hilde took to his advice to heart and acted on it immediately.

When there were only three of us alone, Lestrade squatted down beside me. Frowning, he said, “Bloody poofter,” as he uncovered Stanhope’s face. “He going to live?”

“There’s a good chance, if I can get him to the surgery.”

“Clarkie will be back in a thrice.” Lestrade’s pale eyes flicked over my face. “You’re Dick Watson’s niece?”

I had never heard uncle Richard referred to in that way, but I said, “Yes.”

“Sorry ‘bout the misunderstanding. No ‘ard feelings?”

“None whatsoever.”

“It’s a pleasure to make the acquaintance of a friend of Miss Holmes.” To my surprise, Lestrade tipped his hat.

“As it happens, I’ve been able to assist the Metropolitan Police in a few small matters,” Sophia murmured.

I heard the amusement in her voice, and inferred that some of those ‘small matters’ could not have been inconsequential. At that point I was distracted by the clopping of hooves, the jingle of harness and the sound of raised voices outside the courtyard. Clarkie had returned with a two-horse growler, and he had Nicki with him. It turned out that Clarkie had commandeered the cab over Nicki’s objections, he having persuaded the cabbie to linger in the street, even when they discovered the theater was being raided. When Clarkie told him to Be off! he had chased after the cab. That in itself speaks much to Nicki’s character, but the relief on his face when he saw Stanhope was moving.

As the men carefully lifted Stanhope off the ground and placed him inside the badly sprung car, Sophia came and put her arm around my waist. Nicki climbed in. I was climbed in after him, but Sophia took a step back.

“I’ll go to the police station and bail out Gregory. It would be too base to leave him,” she said.

“By yourself?” I protested. “You can’t possibly!”

“Don’t worry, Sergeant Lestrade will accompany me.”

“And see her safely home, Miss,” Lestrade said.

The cab dipped as Clarkie climbed up beside the driver. Abruptly, I reached out for Sophia’s hand. “This has been quite…an adventure.” I said.

“So it has,” Sophia said, clasping mine hand in turn and gave it a brief squeeze. “I will be in touch.”

On that note, Lestrade shut the door and gave the side of the growler a thump. As the horses began to move and the cab to sway,Stanhope gave a low moan. He was coming around, and I was glad; it was a good sign and something to distract me from my sudden sense of loss. I touched my hand to my lip and thought of Sophia’s last words. When? I wanted to ask, when?

 

TBC


End file.
